Still, the bad weather continued; they could not leave Fort Providence even for an hour. Night and day they had to remain in the snow-house. They all found it tedious, except the doctor, who found diversion for himself.
“Isn’t there any way we can amuse ourselves?” said Altamont one evening. “This isn’t really living, lying here like sluggish reptiles all winter.”
“It’s a pity,” said the doctor, “that we are too few to organize any system of distractions.”
“Do you mean it would be easier for us to combat idleness if there were more of us?” asked the American.
“Yes; when whole crews have wintered in boreal regions, they have found out the way to avoid idleness.”
“To tell the truth,” said Altamont, “I should like to know how they did; they must have been very ingenious to get any fun out of these surroundings. They didn’t ask one another riddles, I suppose?”
“No,” answered the doctor, “but they introduced into these lands two great means of amusement, the press and the theatre.”
“What! did they have a newspaper?” asked the American.
“Did they act plays?” asked Bell.
“Yes, and with much amusement. While he was wintering at Melville Island, Captain Parry offered his crews these two entertainments, and they enjoyed them very much.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “I should have liked to be there; it must have been funny enough.”
“Funny indeed; Lieutenant Beecher was manager of the theatre, and Captain Sabine editor of the Winter Chronicle, or Gazette of North Georgia.”
“Good names,” said Altamont.
“The paper appeared every Monday morning, from November 1, 1819, to March 20, 1820. It contained an account of everything that happened, the hunts, accidents, incidents, and of the weather; there were stories written for it; to be sure, it lacked the humor of Sterne, and the delightful articles of the Daily Telegraph; but they got amusement from it; its readers were not overcritical, and I fancy no journalists ever enjoyed their occupation more.”
“Well,” said Altamont, “I should like to hear some extracts from this paper, my dear Doctor; its articles must all have been frozen solid.”
“No, no,” answered the doctor; “at any rate, what would have seemed simple enough to the Liverpool Philosophical Society, or the London Literary Institution, was perfectly satisfactory to the crews beneath the snow. Do you want a sample?”
“What! Do you remember—”
“No, but you had Parry’s Voyages on board the Porpoise, and I can read you his own account.”
“Do!” shouted the doctor’s companions.
“There’s nothing easier.”
The doctor got the book from the shelves, and soon found the passage.
“See here,” he said, “here are some extracts from the newspaper. It is a letter addressed to the editor:—
“ ‘It is with genuine satisfaction that your plan for the establishment of a newspaper has been received. I am convinced that under your charge it will furnish us with a great deal of amusement, and will serve to lighten materially the gloom of our hundred days of darkness.
“ ‘The interest which I, for my part, take in it has caused me to examine the effect of your announcement upon the members of our society, and I can assure you, to use the consecrated phrase of the London press, that it has produced a profound impression upon the public.
“ ‘The day after the appearance of your prospectus, there was on board an unusual and unprecedented demand for ink. The green cloth of our tables was suddenly covered with a deluge of quill-pens, to the great injury of one of our servants, who, in trying to remove them, got one under his nail.
“ ‘Finally, I know that Sergeant Martin has had no less than nine pocketknives to sharpen.
“ ‘Our tables are groaning beneath the unaccustomed weight of inkstands, which had not seen the light for two months; and it is even whispered that the depths of the hold have been often opened to secure many reams of paper, which did not expect to issue so soon from their place of repose.
“ ‘I shall not forget to say to you that I have some suspicions that an effort will be made to slip into your box some articles, which, lacking complete originality, and not being wholly unpublished, may not suit your plan. I can affirm that no later than last evening an author was seen bending over his desk, holding in one hand an open volume of the Spectator, while with the other he was thawing his ink by the flame of the lamp. It is useless to recommend you to keep a lookout against such devices; we must not see reappearing in the Winter Chronicle what our ancestors used to read at breakfast more than a century ago.’ ”
“Well, well,” said Altamont, when the doctor had finished reading, “there is really good humor in that, and the writer must have been a bright fellow.”
“Bright is the word,” answered the doctor. “Stop a moment, here is an amusing advertisement:—
“ ‘Wanted. A middle-aged, respectable woman to help dress the ladies of the troupe of the Theatre Royal of North Georgia. Suitable salary given, tea and beer free. Address the Committee of the theatre.—N.B. A widow preferred.’ ”
“They were not disgusted, at any rate,” said Johnson.
“And did they get the widow?” asked Bell.
“Probably,” answered the doctor, “for here is an answer addressed to the committee:—
“Gentlemen: I am a widow, twenty-six years old, and I can produce warm testimonials as to my morals and talents. But before taking charge of the dresses of the actresses of your theatre, I am anxious to know if they intend to keep their trousers on, and whether I can have the aid of some strong sailors to
